


Read My Mind

by sunshinetina



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Dirty Talk, Footy Ficathon, M/M, Sexual Tension, The Ache in Your Legs Footy Ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 20:42:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3263717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinetina/pseuds/sunshinetina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not heaven. This feels like hell and Robert is sitting on the throne there, while Jérôme is on his knees in front of him, literally and figuratively speaking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Read My Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Since I laid the foundations of the Boadowski ship *bows* (check 'The (Love) Mission'), I decided it was time for me to write something dedicated just to them. Plus, I see the ship gaining popularity, which makes me extremely happy. *-*
> 
> Based on this Footy Ficathon prompt: http://thesilverwitch.livejournal.com/33981.html?thread=980669#t980669
> 
> Comments are always appreciated! (Be kind, my usual venue is fluff. *gulps*)

Now, for all that Jérôme knows, he has a certain type. And that certain type is a beautiful female, probably short, with hazel eyes and brown hair. All his girlfriends up to this very moment fall under this description. With all of them, it was sweet love – almost child-like, innocent and pure. Sometimes, he felt like the butterflies in his stomach were what heaven felt like and he thought he was honestly blessed.

 

Robert is _not_ his type. He is anything _but_ his type. He is tall, with the most blue blue eyes Jérôme has ever seen, with thick black hair, and _definitely_ not a female. Nothing in him is sweet, nothing is innocent or pure. When Robert looks at him through his eyelashes, all Jérôme wants is to press him against the wall and hear Robert moan his name over and over again as he comes. There are no butterflies in his stomach, there is only his mind screaming of the things he would do to Robert, of the mess he would make out of him, of his fingers buried deep inside Robert, making him roll his eyes off his skull. This is not heaven. This feels like hell and Robert is sitting on the throne there, while Jérôme is on his knees in front of him, literally and figuratively speaking.

 

Jérôme gulps loudly as Robert’s eyes find his amidst the gym and his thin lips stretch into a smirk. Mario sighs next to him and compassionately pats his lower back.

 

‘He can read your mind, you know,’ Mario whispers and Jérôme tries his best – he really does – but he just can’t move his gaze away from Robert’s mischievous one, ‘He can guess what’s in your thoughts.’

 

Jérôme lets out a shaky breath and whimpers as Mario grabs him by the arm and forces him to focus on his exercises. Jérôme still feels Robert’s burning gaze on his back and it takes all his self-control not to melt under this look. He is not sure when the room became so unbearably hot, though.

 

Someone ouches ten minutes later and Jérôme instinctively looks up, only to see Bastian pointing his middle finger at the laughing Robert.

 

‘You are such a devil, fuck off!’ Bastian rubs his thigh and curses more under his breath, trying to hide his smile.

 

‘There’s a reason why people call me _Satan_ , dear,’ Robert smirks and sends a quick look at Jérôme. His lips twist in a slight smirk and Jérôme finally realises.

 

No, that’s _not_ heaven. There are no angels around, no God, nothing religious. This is hot, burning, suffocating hell. And as Robert looks straight at him, Jérôme can swear he sees the flames sparkling in those mesmerising blue eyes. Jérôme lacks breath, lacks thinking or consideration but the lower part of his body has a mind of its own and wants, needs, _begs_.

 

Robert’s tongue travels over his upper lip and Jérôme gasps involuntarily. His groin twitches and hurts, he feels his stomach clenched into a ball, his legs are wobbly. Robert’s eyes are dimmed now, his unstable breathes as he exercises moisten his lips, and Jérôme’s throat feels dry as he swallows.

 

Jérôme practically runs out of the training grounds without even taking a shower and without even dressing up, despite everyone shouting at him he might catch a cold. He caught enough. He caught Robert’s thoughts through those damn eyes and he is positive his pants have never felt so impossibly tight in his entire life.

 

But as he throws his bag at the back seat of his Audi and slams the door, those eyes are right in front of him. The lopsided mischievous smile too. Jérôme’s tight pants are way too painful now.

 

‘Tell me.’

 

Jérôme shakes his head and raises an eyebrow in confusion. Robert takes a step forward.

 

‘I am not the only one who can read minds here, am I?’ Robert smirks and Jérôme gulps. One step closer. Jérôme doesn’t want to breathe because all he can inhale is Robert’s sweaty scent.

 

‘I don’t know what you’re talking of,’ Jérôme’s voice is low and husky and it makes Robert moan quietly, but Jérôme catches it and bites his lips.

 

‘Don’t you?’ Robert takes one more step closer and he is just a step away from Jérôme. The air becomes heavy and hot – so fucking hot, Jérôme forgets to breath. Next thing he knows is Robert lifting his hand and stroking Jérôme’s tanned cheek, ‘Do you know what I can read in your mind? Hm?’

 

Jérôme purses his lips and slightly shakes his head. The friction with Robert’s soft hand lights him on fire.

 

‘You think of me,’ Robert’s voice comes out as a whisper, ‘Looking at you while you are on your knees. Of my face while you make me come.’

 

Jérôme groans and Robert’s smirk goes wider. _Satan personified_.

 

‘Isn’t that so?’ Robert’s nose brushes Jérôme’s, ‘Come on, tell me. Tell me what you can read.’

 

‘Only-...’ Jérôme can’t formulate a proper sentence and this makes Robert’s lips slightly touch the corner of his, ‘Only you can read-...’ Robert’s hand continues stroking Jérôme’s cheek, while his other one finds its way on Jérôme’s bulge and presses slightly. Jérôme gasps in Robert’s mouth and the other man chuckles.

 

‘Tell me.’

 

‘ _Fuck_ ,’ Jérôme half-closes his eyes as Robert presses him against the shining Audi, his hands still on their respective places, ‘Fuck, all you think of is me-...’ Jérôme groans as Robert’s knee spreads his legs and his palm intensifies the rubbing on his crotch, ‘-...of me sucking you off.’

 

Robert smirks and leans forward, sucking on Jérôme’s neck and definitely leaving a hickey there. But Jérôme needs more as he wraps his arms around Robert’s waist and pulls him closer. Robert’s lips brush Jérôme’s earlobe and his teeth bite it.

 

‘Will you do it? Will I have you on your knees for me?’ Robert whispers and Jérôme hums an incoherent response, ‘Just for me, kochanie? Will I have you begging?’

 

‘ _Please_ ,’ Jérôme thinks he might explode as soon as he hears Robert talking in Polish, ‘Please, let’s get out of here. Please, Robert, please. I-... _Please_.’

 

Jérôme is fully aware he is being pathetic but neither does he, nor his groin care. Robert’s lips are finally on his and he swallows both their spontaneous moans.

 

And as he finds himself on his knees later that night, with Robert’s bluest eyes staring down at him and his longest fingers entangled in his sticky hair, Jérôme thinks _maybe this is what it feels like to be possessed by Satan_. But Jérôme has never been a saint either.


End file.
